


The Lighthouse or the Storm

by Pepperish



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eurotrip, F/M, I'm a slut for travel fics sorry, Wanderlust, but a lot less than usual?, slight angst, travel fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8909740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pepperish/pseuds/Pepperish
Summary: If there’s one thing the universe knows how to do is throw people against each other. Sometimes the timing is awful, sometimes the timing is just right. It never matters, in the end they always explode, be it with the blinding light of a newborn star, or the quiet of words left unspoken of a dying one. The first time Clarke Griffin is thrown against Bellamy Blake is quite literal. (OR: Clarke goes to Paris after a bad break up in an exchange arts program. It must be bad luck that, when she rents a room at Aurora Blake's, she gets one Bellamy Blake)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. Another wanderlust-y fic, that's my jam.
> 
> I want to thank Lana ([ Marauders_groupie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marauders_groupie/pseuds/marauders_groupie)) for all things like, a) bearing with me and my dramas, b) providing feedback and correcting my incredibly poor grammar. You're the babest, as you well know it.
> 
> So, here it goes. Hope y'all enjoy it. Please leave kudos/comments before you leave -- I crave love and affection, it's only polite.

 

 

_“And you were never sure_

_If I was the lighthouse or the storm”_

 

(PARIS)

 If there’s one thing the universe knows how to do is throw people against each other. Sometimes the timing is awful, sometimes the timing is just right. It never matters, in the end they always explode, be it with the blinding light of a newborn star, or the quiet of words left unspoken of a dying one.

 The first time Clarke Griffin is thrown against Bellamy Blake is quite literal.

 She’d been trying to find the building where she’d be staying for the next six weeks, but the numbers in that damn street made no fucking sense and she’s left running in circles for the best part of the last twenty minutes.

 Clarke ruffled through her bag again, reaching for the planner where she organized and scheduled stuff to the smallest detail. She thought after all that planning, it’d be a little easier. Fate, apparently, was not in the mood for _easy_ when it comes to Clarke.

 It was unsettling, to say the least.

 Even more so when she collided with someone. The impact thrown her off balance and she had to take a couple of clumsy steps to steady herself.

“Watch where you’re going” her French might not be perfect, but she sure understood the guy wasn’t very polite about it. His sharp-cut jaw was clenched tight and he was openly glaring at her.

“Like you were doing such a great job of it,” Clarke quipped back fiercely, then muttered to herself, “This day keeps getting better and better.”

“Oh, great, it’s you,” the stranger snarked, heavy French accent tainting his polished English. “I was beginning to think you’ve been murdered or something. One never knows with Americans, right?”

“Excuse me but, _what?_ ”

“You’re Clarke Griffin, aren’t you?”

“Oh,” realization finally dawned on her. Clarke gave him another look, reassessing him with her new knowledge, “and you’re Mrs Blake’s son.”

“Bellamy will do,” he cut her, short and impatient, “now let’s get moving. It might come as a shock, princess, but some people don’t have all day to wait on your highness.”

“I was _lost_ , jackass. I’m all but fifteen minutes late!”

 He opened the door for her with a mocking courtesy and smirks, with a disdain that seemed distinctly Parisian.

“Fifteen minutes too long.”

“Jesus fucking Christ”

 The slight brush of his fingertips against the small of her back went (nearly, almost) unnoticed.

 

(NEW YORK)

 The crisp autumn air creeps through every small hole of her knit sweater and precariously thin leggings as she waits for the girl behind the counter – insufferably bright and smiling at this ungodly hour – to finish her two bagels and two coffees to go order.

Broadway behind her was as busy as ever at six thirty am sharp. The noise this early in the morning always made her miss Paris like a lost limb, how people’s hushed voices and mellowed accents ran over her skin like some sort of balsam. Like salvation.

 She no longer believed in those things when she was in France, but.

 Clarke comes back to the shoebox she calls home, paper bag in hand, and is not entirely surprised when there’s no trace of Bellamy Blake left.

 

(ROME)

 Rome might be her favorite city.

 Maybe it’s how the light hits the Roman Forum just right in the view from their room’s window while Bellamy does the exact same inside her, or maybe it’s the fact that, away from his mother ever-changing moods and Octavia’s demanding eyes, Clarke can finally see some forgiveness when he smiles.

 Bellamy talks with his hands, seems to know everything there is about this city, even if it’s his first time there as well.

“Do you know they still use a few of the aqueducts built in the Roman Empire?” he asks, eyes glinting, lips forming a slight curve that makes her chest expand until it can swallow the entire universe and threaten to shrink back again and crush everything in its wake.

“This cannot be sanitary.”

“Of course it is!” he says, dramatically clutching his chest. “They were just that good, Clarke.”

“Not that _you_ would point out differently if they weren’t. Admit it, Bellamy, you have a major boner for every single roman emperor ever.”

 Bellamy drops the act and his smile turns into something almost painful, faraway and untouchable.

“Yeah, maybe. Augustus used to be my favorite, when I was a kid.”

 It’s under the shadow cast by dead buildings that once brimmed with the blood-thirsty life of gladiators and warriors that Clarke learns to read Bellamy’s softness. He was never as soft as he was in the Vatican’s shadow or in those little street cafes he couldn’t seem to get over,

“You know there are like _thousands_ of those in Paris, right? Whichever avenue you pick, there’s probably at least twenty of those.”

“They aren’t _Italian_ , Clarke.”

“Yeah, they’re _French_. You’re ridiculous.”

 Mostly, Clarke would initiate stupid fights just because bickering brought out the best in them.

 And during the nights, she’d learn to read his body just the same as he did hers, touch the hammering of his pulse with feather-light fingers, tracing the maze of his beautiful veins from his wrist all the way to where they disappeared under the smooth olive skin of his chest.

“You think you could ever learn to love me?” Bellamy whispered one night, only warm air and light sheets between them. His breath smelled like wine and fresh starts.

“I think it’d be harder to learn how not to.”

“What happened to love is weakness?” he asked his lightly teasing tone far from convincing.

“Maybe the person who taught me that was wrong. Or maybe I found out there are worse things in life than being weak.”

 And, while his fingers found her thighs to hoist her up on his lap, Clarke could see exactly how much he didn’t believe her.

 

(NEW YORK)

“Luna,” Clarke called quietly into the darkness of her apartment, “do you think I fucked everything up?”

 For a few moments, the other girl was quiet. But then she heaved a deep sigh.

“Yeah, Clarke. I think you did.”

“I needed to talk to her.”

“Look, Lexa was important to you. I know. But the way she left, Clarke…” Luna halts, considering her words. Her voice is soft like the waves licking the sand, unforgivable in a way that make Clarke’s skin prickle. Luna had that effect. “I don’t think you made the right choice there, but it’s not my decision.”

“I know. I wanted your opinion anyway.”

“Will you try to patch things up with him?”

“I don’t know how.”

 Luna scooted over to where Clarke was curled up and threaded her fingers through her hair, pale silver in the moonlight.

“If you really want to, you’ll figure something out.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we call Raven.”

 

 

(AMSTERDAM)

 Amsterdam would have been messy enough if she hadn’t run into Lexa.

 The picturesque city looked like just what they needed at the time, though. Everything with Bellamy up until then had been sort of perfect, in the sense that they had shouting matches over which supermarket brands to buy and which eighties movie was better. They were hardcore cuddlers who became familiar with everything about each other until they could wear that knowledge like a second skin.

 

 They arrived in Netherlands with his arm flung around her neck and her heart pounding against his chest.

 Bellamy walked the Van Gogh museum with her for over three hours and cried twice as much as she did in the Anne Frank House. He told her about how Aurora hid Octavia for almost two years, how they traveled to the outskirts of Paris during her pregnancy and how, after they got back, he’d get under the wooden floor with a baby bundled in his arms, lulling and shushing her, and hide from the vicious fights going on above. Apparently, Octavia’s father was a grade A psychopath.

 Clarke found herself telling him about Finn, Raven and her dad.

 How much she loved them.

 How much loving them cost her. She told him how people like Raven are made of black matter and steel, how she’d always bounce back stronger. She told him how people like herself are destined to find black holes and love them.

(She didn’t mention she thought this time might be different, but she hoped he understood that anyway.)

 The days were short, the nights were long and chilly. Clarke felt like the gaping hole inside her chest was finally filling with something.

 Something _good_.

  And that’s, of course, when the universe decided it was high time to throw her into someone again.

 While Bellamy and Clarke usually ate at cheap restaurants at night, choosing to go for the multitude of greasy smelling local diners, in Amsterdam they chose to go for a fancy night out.

“Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? I’d like to see you in your natural habitat,” he teased, pinching her side. She slapped his arm and glared.

“It’s not my natural habitat, you asshole. I like places where I can go eat with paint stained cutoffs, thank you very much.”

“If I didn’t think you’d catch a cold, I’d make you do good on your word. I quite like the idea of you in paint stained cutoffs.” His eyes roamed over her and sent a shiver down her spine, but only when Bellamy smiled – something like tenderness shining through his dark lashes – Clarke got goosebumps. “Can we go to that restaurant in The Fault in Our Stars?”

“Is that place even for real?” She laughed.

“I have no idea. But google does.”

 It did sound like fun.

 They could arrive at a fancy place and act very scandalously. Maybe it was the childish part of her that still obtained pleasure from doing things Abby Griffin wouldn’t approve of, but she didn’t care.

 If anything, Bellamy Blake was exhilarating.

 Except that, two tables to their right, in what looked like a business dinner, was Lexa Woods.

 All the air left Clarke’s lungs in one sharp exhale while her heart turned into a war drum.

 Her memories always failed to replicate just how gorgeous Lexa was.

 Even if they hadn’t exchanged any words, the stricken look in both their faces when their eyes met left no room for doubts.

 She was the one person Clarke never mentioned to Bellamy.

 Of course, he saw it written all over her face in bold letters, heard it loud in her silence, why that was.

 In all his glory – and he truly was glorious, more than the ruins he idolized and the rulers he loved to talk about - Bellamy Blake was just not enough to mend what Lexa broke.

 Not yet, anyway.

“Hello, Clarke,” Lexa’s voice was as smooth as always, eyes hesitant, yet warm. No sign of her previous shock leaked into her composed demeanor when she excused herself from the table and approached them.

 It was just like Clarke to respond in kind.

 Under the weight of the other woman’s gaze, Bellamy saw Clarke transform. Back ramrod straight, authority pouring out of her so naturally he wondered how he hadn’t seen it all along.

 There were still glimpses of the girl he came to know: the dignified jut of her chin, her assessing gaze. This, however, seemed like ghost memories, too far away to have an actual impact on who that woman in front of him was.

“Lexa.” Clarke’s lips curled around her name, tasting its familiarity, feeling her stomach fill with both heartbreak and eons-old longing.

 It took a few electricity-filled moments where no words were needed to sustain a conversation, for Bellamy to get tired of watching from the sidelines and spur into action, extending his hand:

“I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Bellamy Blake. Enchanté pour faire votre connaissance.” Charm dripped from his cool tone as the English came out perfectly and the French, mellowed and sensual.

“I beg your pardon for my rudeness, Mr. Blake. My name is Lexa Woods, I’m an old friend of Clarke’s,” Lexa quipped back in his mother language, just as languidly.

 The moment was broken even if the tension was not. They made small talk for a couple more minutes before Lexa excused herself and went back to her dinner, leaving Bellamy and Clarke under a heavy blanket of uncomfortable silence.

 Clarke opened her mouth, ‘ _sorry_ ’ at the tip of her tongue, but he didn’t let her say it.

“Don’t,” his voice was low, but sure, so Clarke swallowed her apologies and busied herself with wine.

 

 She watched as he paced back and forth like a caged, angry animal, fingers deep into his dark tangled curls.

“Bellamy, I—”

“You didn’t tell me you were in love with someone else, Clarke,” she hated he didn’t scream. “That seems like pretty big thing to hide, huh?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

 Clarke could see in his eyes that every second it took her to come up with a truthful answer was like a kick in the gut.

“I don’t know,” she finally breathed out. “We broke up months ago, but…”

 The next morning both their phones rang.

 Lexa wanted to talk, and maybe (probably, even) they should. There were so many things left unsaid, so many wounds left open and raw. Clarke needed this.

 She tried to explain, but Bellamy didn’t want to hear. Clarke couldn’t fault him for that, not honestly.

 He told her to go.

 It wasn’t until much later – _too late_ \- she found out Octavia has called, all wrecked sobs and desperation.

 Aurora Blake was dead.

 

(PARIS)

 It was one of the good days.

 The Parisian flat was sun-drenched and looking every bit like hipster movies made them out to be. The smell of pain au chocolat wafted through the air and one could hear Aurora’s soft humming like a lullaby all the way from the kitchen.

 Clarke was perched on the living room windowsill; some archaic book with a grammar her still-in-progress French couldn’t quite comprehend left forgotten by her side as she sketched the skyline with pastels.

 Octavia had painted her toenails a vivid shade of blue while gossiping about some boy or another of her school and Clarke felt like maybe things were going to be ok again, someday.

 She didn’t even realize Bellamy was standing behind her before he said, softly,

“That’s not half bad.”

 Clarke snapped out of her daze, eyes focusing on him. For some reason, the lack of his infuriating smirk made her skin prickle; a warning that something was off with the universe.

“Wow, you actually tried to compliment me. Is this doom’s day? I thought the apocalypse wasn’t due for another month.”

“Cute,” he deadpanned, but the corner of his lips twitched up in amusement. Clarke managed to suppress a smile of her own.

 Bellamy sat beside her, eyes roaming over the familiar sights. Her hands slowly moved onto the shape of his bones, instead of the buildings.

“What brought you here?” he finally asked, eyes boring into hers.

“This seems like the kind of question you should have asked me when I just got here, like a normal person. But instead, you were too busy being rude.”

“Shut up, you’ve only been her for three days.” The tip of his ears were turning pink and Clarke laughed despite herself.

“Better late than never, I guess. Arts program.”

 At that, Bellamy smiled – bright and earnest like she had never seen - and Clarke began to understand why Paris was called the city of lights.

“While we’re still in that sentiment, I know a bar nearby—”

 

 At night, they went out, played every cheap bar game available and were almost kicked out for being too loud and too annoying. They promised to keep away from the darts, so the brooding bartender let them stay, but still somehow got themselves into a drinking competition that resulted in cutting all their communication short:

“My brain is too fuzzy for other languages, Princess.”

“I speak French!”

“Not nearly well enough,” he laughed.

 Clarke pushed his shoulder as hard as she could, but she was laughing too.

"Are you gonna kiss me or what?" 

  A spark ignited deep into his dark eyes and she leaned forward when his rough fingers pressed against the back of her neck.

“I thought you couldn’t understand me,” she teased when his breath was close enough to fan across her cheeks.

“Shhh”

 He kissed her anyway.

 

(NEW YORK)

FROM: [o.blake@gmail.com](mailto:o.blake@gmail.com)

TO: [clarkeelisabethgriffin@gmail.com](mailto:clarkeelisabethgriffin@gmail.com)

SUBJECT: FYI, asshole

 

Clarke,

 If it truly depended on me, I’d never talk or hear from you again.

 But this is not about me and, while I hate you, I still think you should know Bell got into that masters program he wanted at NYU.

 We arrive on the 30th.

 Don’t make the same mistake twice. I promise you there’ll be no third chance.

 Octavia

 

(NEW YORK)

“Bellamy,” Clarke practically sighed when her call went straight to the machine, “I, hm, just wanted to say I understand why you didn’t stay. I know I hurt you with – well, everything, and I’m sorry, ok? But I also know that there’s only one of you, so I’m not going to give up that easily. I don’t think you should either. Just call me back. I know we can fix this. I know we can.”

 She took a gulp out of one of the foam cups she bought, the coffee lukewarm by now.

 Her empty bed and messy sheets were mocking her.

 

(NEW YORK)

 They stumbled into her apartment with fumbling hands and heady kisses.

 It’s not how it’s supposed to be, the knowledge hangs thick in Clarke’s mind, almost dense enough to drown her. She tried talking but Bellamy wouldn’t listen, and if she can get this – soaring touches making her skin tingle, fresh air in her lungs every time his lips slant over hers – or nothing at all, she’d much rather keep dragging him to her bedroom.

“Clarke,” he breathes out her name and it’s almost as if Rome is lying beneath their window, soft lights and his lazy smile in the morning. For the next few hours, Clarke lets herself forget there are no ruins on the horizon, but the unforgivable cold that New York offers to those with nothing left to lose.

 In the back of her mind, she’ll acknowledge later, Clarke always knew that, come morning, she’d be the only thing crumbling.

(Maybe it’s fair, since she was the one to leave Bellamy in shambles in the first place)

 

(AMSTERDAM)

“Hey,” Lexa opened the door and Clarke greeted her, breathless, her already low voice turning slightly husky. Green eyes sparkled with amusement while Lexa’s lips twitched lightly upwards.

 God, Clarke missed that face.

“Hello, Clarke. I was hoping you’d come,” Lexa’s gaze was warm, if tentative, as she let Clarke in. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I wasn’t sure either.”

“I’m glad you did.”

 Clarke smiled. Her heart was beating painfully against her chest, leaving her uncomfortable and hyperaware in the way only Lexa could make her feel.

“Let’s see how this goes and then I’ll tell you if I’m glad as well.”

 

(ROME)

“You, Bellamy Blake,” Clarke teased, “are such a dork.”

“Why did you have to actually spend time with my sister?”

“Because she’s way cooler and you were busy being an asshole.” She nodded sagely. Bellamy merely smirked.

“Oh, right. _That_.”

“Are you going to buy that?” She asked, motioning for the old tome in his hand. It looked perfectly in place, red, leathery cover contrasting with his dark skin, his long fingers. Bellamy always looked a little bit like something ancient, something mystical.

 And a little bit like something wild.

“I don’t know.”

“You should. It fits you.”

 He ducked his head to hide his grin.

“Is that a way of calling me a dork again?”

“Of course it is,” it was Clarke’s turn to smirk, “Italian pretentious book with golden letters and tales about glory, sacrifice and victory.”

 Bellamy actually threw his head to laugh at that.

“Is that what you think this book is about?”

 "That's what I think you're about."

 He leans to press a kiss against her mouth, firm and tempting.

“That and an asshole?”

“That’s my general concept of you, yeah.” His smile could light up every building in this city and Clarke wanted to see that again and again.

(She never thought of galaxies being born when someone smiled before.)

“I can live with that.”

 Bellamy placed the book under his arm before making his way to the bored-looking cashier.

“Oh, and Clarke?” She lifted her head from the art book in her hands to see him smirking at her from over his shoulder. “The book’s about gardening.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“I’m taking it home anyway.”

 

 

(PARIS)

“Fucking finally! What took you so long to fix up a goddamn skype account, Clarke?”

“I miss you too, Raven.”

 In the bright screen of her computer, Clarke could see Raven’s shoulder dropping as she left all the fight out of her to smile, brilliant, feral and wonderful, like always.

“Of course I miss you, you nitwit. I’m just appalled by your general lack of competence towards technology. And human contact. You know, the usual.”

“I got that,” Clarke can’t help but laugh. “How’s Gina and Wells?”

“They’re fine. Gina’s bartending right now and Wells is at Washington in for the week, but they’re good. We all are. How are you?”

“I’m great, really.”

“C’mon, Clarke. If Wells comes back and I don’t have a sufficiently detailed report to give him about you he’s going to be insufferable.”

“You mean he’ll look at you all disappointed for half a minute and then you’ll take off your shirt and he’ll forget all about it?” Clarke raised an eyebrow.

“Shut up, it’ll be a _whole_ minute of pain in my ass until I take off my shirt. I’d rather avoid that.”

 They chuckle, but the pointed way Raven’s looking at her through the camera says she won’t let go. Then again, Raven never lets anything go, so no surprises there.

“It’s awesome here, Rae. You’d love it. If you three ever get married, you should spend your honeymoon here.”

“Nah. Wells and Gina can go do romance, I’d rather stay in my garage.”

“Don’t try to fool me, Reyes, you’re a romantic deep inside. You cry every time you watch Titanic!”

“I do not!”

“Do too!” They both grin like idiots. “I really miss you guys, but I still think I need this.”

“I get that you felt like you had to go away for a while. Heal or whatever,” Raven grumbles, “I just wish you didn’t.”

“I know that.”

“You know we’re here for you, right?”

“I do.”

 Clarke smiles, softly. For all her sharp edges, Raven has one of the biggest hearts she has ever seen.

“What about the house you’re staying? No stalkers yet? Poltergeists, maybe?”

“No, but the son of my landlady _is_ a complete asshole.”

“Oh really?”

“Definitely. He was so rude when I got here, all because I got lost and was _fifteen_ minutes late. He wouldn’t shut up about it, fucking unbearable.” She shook her head, the crease between her brows deepening. “He’s got this whole alpha male bullshit vibe about him, never combs his hair, thinks he looks so good everyone should just fall in love and do what he says. Asshole.”

“Is he tall?”

“What?”

“Indulge me, babe. Tall, dark…?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so. What the hell, Raven?”

 The other girl flipped her ponytail and rolled her eyes. Clarke could picture it perfectly even if the image was a bit pixelated.

“What I’m hearing, Griffin, is that this guy is tall, dark and asshole. One hundred percent your type. Fuck him and get over the sexual tension. Maybe then you’ll have some worthwhile news to tell.”

“Raven, no!”

“Raven yes!”

“You know what? You’re an asshole too.” Clarke crossed her arms and glared at the camera.

“And you love me. Also, I’m tall and dark too. See what I’m getting at?”

“I’m never skyping you again.”

“As if, babe.”

 

(AMSTERDAM)

“You’re leaving again,” Clarke really tried to keep her tone from being accusing, but there was no helping it.

“Clarke…” Lexa’s face was a blank mask. Never losing her composure was a skill Clarke envied and hated in equal amounts.

“Why didn’t you tell me? _How_ didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to make you understand.”

“Hiding it isn’t going to make me understand, Lexa. As a matter of fact, nothing is going to make me understand how you can do this to me again!”

“This isn’t like last time, Clarke. You can come with me – I,” Lexa took a deep breath, closing her eyes. For a moment, she looked vulnerable, young. “I wish you’d come with me.”

“Leave New York? For how long?”

“I don’t know. There are galleries in Germany.”

“There are also law firms in NY.”

 Lexa didn’t respond.

“I can’t believe you,” Clarke whispered.

“You might not understand why, but I need to do this, Clarke. And I… I care about you. I don’t want to leave you again.”

“I don’t think you realize how all you ever do is leave me behind.” Clarke pressed her eyes shut forcefully.

“Clarke –”

“Lexa, no.” She shook her head, resolution settling in her bones, and came up to cup Lexa’s cheeks, “Just listen to me, ok? I love you. But I can’t do this. I need to go home.”

 Green eyes softened and Clarke’s heart didn’t shatter in a million pieces the way it did the first time. It was like her heart was made of sturdier stuff now – Clarke couldn’t help but think of soft, yearning brown eyes and Paris’ sunlight.

 Lexa would always have a piece of her, but some things just aren’t meant to be. Maybe that’s what they are.

“I understand.”

 She pressed her lips against Lexa’s, soft and longing.

“I’m really glad I came.”

 For the first time, it feels like turning a page.

 

(AMSTERDAM)

 The answering machine beeped again.

“Listen, I –” Clarke had to swallow past the lump in her throat and press her eyes tightly to fight of the prick behind her eyelids, “I’m so, so sorry, Bellamy. I didn’t know and I shouldn’t – shit. I fucked up. I’m so sorry. If you need anything or Octavia, just… Just call me. Please. I’m so _sorry_.”

 She let her head drop against the wall. The soft light from the room bled out to the small balcony and she stared at the skyline until the night was dark.

 The sky was pitch black and barren. She scoffed to herself, _fitting_.

 

(NEW YORK)

 Bellamy looks almost pained when he spots her, frizzy blonde curls brushing past her shoulders and tentative smile.

 He approaches her anyway.

“Clarke—”

“Look,” she cuts him, “I need to talk to you.”

“Oh, _now_ you need to talk?”

“Well, since you’ve escaped my flat while I went for coffee, yeah, I think now would be a good time.”

 Bellamy runs his hand over his face with a sigh.

“Ok, that was a dick move,” he admits.

“You had your reasons, I’m not –” Clarke stops mid-sentence and worries her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to make it come out right. “I get it, ok? And I’m sorry about everything. I really, really want to try again. I meant it when I said I believe we can fix this.”

“How?” He sounds hopeless and she absolutely hates it.

“I just – ok, how about this? Hi, I’m Clarke Griffin. I’m an artist who lives in a cramped apartment nearby and works at a gallery three days a week. I have an ex-girlfriend with whom I had unresolved shit, but now we’re done for good and I’d love to take you out for a cup of coffee.”

“That’s all it takes?” he asks, dry, but there’s amusement lurking behind his narrowed eyes.

“I can only hope so,” Clarke gives him a tentative smile. “It can be nothing, though. We can go out for coffee and you decide you don’t like me all that much anyway. Or I find out that America suddenly turned you into an asshole or something.”

“You always thought I was an asshole,” Bellamy points out, a smile tugging the tips of his lips upwards.

“There’s that, yes.”

 She tugs at the ends of her shirt nervously and just stands there, waiting.

 Bellamy seems to regard her for a long time before cursing himself under his breath and giving up.

“Alright, but I won’t put out after a cup of coffee. You’ll need to buy me at least dinner first.”

“As long as you’re ok with Chinese, it’s a deal.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, just a little, guarded and hesitant, but entwines his fingers with hers nonetheless and Clarke feels almost dizzy with relief, “it’s a deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you love the 100 or travelling or both, come fangirl with me on [ tumblr ](%E2%80%9Dpepperish.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D).


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